I do not know if I would still love you
if you were a happy person.
I do not know if you would still love me
if I was in less pain.
I do not know if I would still love you
if you were less depraved.
I do not know if you would still love me
if I hadn't pushed you away.

I do not know the point of the exercise
or why we dwell on what cannot change:
You are not a happy person
and nothing can fix my pain.
I claw away at those who love me
and you will always be
depraved.

I remember how
you got upset over
the fact that I didn't cry when
we reconnected after several years
apart
and I still think
about how absurd that
is to me
because there's no way in hell
that after two marriages
and countless jobs
that you hadn't encountered
a situation in which the narrative
in your mind
did not match up with
how things unfolded in your life
and what do tears do anyway?
Sobbing in a George Webb's
would only make the desolate
atmosphere even worse.

From the parking lot
by the park
you walk a little bit down
the road and there's an opening
in the woods and hidden there
is a teepee.

It's more of a bunch of sticks
arranged to look like a teepee
than an actual teepee
but it still offers a little shelter
from the weight of the world
when you're hanging out in
there with a bunch of your
misfit friends
and talking about the future
as the cacophony of all the
animals and bugs in the trees
wells up like the 1812 Overture
at sundown,
the fading orange light
challenged by the glow of your faces.

I haven't been there
in years,
but have directed many
of my younger acquaintances there
to offer a little bit of solace
that can't be expressed
in any way other than experience.

all I know is I no longer remember what it feels like to not miss you

I heard my mom saying that my body is a temple
When It took just 3 text messages to get you through my door
Your finger prints all over this broken building, my body
As you enter without even knocking, screaming you love me
As it took just one goodbye
to be forced to act like I don’t know you anymore

I heard my mom saying my body is a temple
When I stumbled drunk into your room
You took a bat to the already broken doors and windows of this building
Screaming that I’m good enough, good enough for you
then watching you roll over and ignore  my calls the next day at noon

I heard my mom say my body is a temple
When I realized mine is nothing more than the resting point along the way
Because temples are full of worship and love .
Something I have never felt inside these broken down doors and cracked walls
No my body is not a temple,
for I’m just  something you stop at because it’s beautiful,
but never the place you want to stay

hell is dreaming about you, and waking up in someone else's bed

i stand in the mirror for hours
wondering what it is about me that makes me so easy to replace
i stand over the sink and try to wash the words "use me" off my forehead
only to find out it was tattooed on to my skin
i run my fingers down my body and feel every single name of the boys that came after you carved on to me like a name on a grave stone
i place my hand on my heart but feel no beat

because see they talk about death as in the ones who leave forever, but they never talk about the ones that have died but are still walking this earth
they don't talk about the ones with fake smiles and laughs that are just illusions
illusions so you can't see that they are just completely empty inside
a walking grave

i stand in the mirror for hours
wondering what it is about me that makes me so easy to replace

but now i know- no one can love someone that's already dead

‘ground rules are important’, i say as i

twist my hand around knees and pinch

the skin inside to keep myself, functional.

the rules are as follows,



number one

we can’t sit together at dinner parties

it makes me itch when our arms touch



number two

i can’t look for you in the crowd

just to make sure you haven’t left

or that you’re looking for me as well



number three

you can’t not talk to me, it makes the room

dull and lights too bright

you give me headaches that cripples



number four

you can’t talk to me, it makes the room

feel alive and it consumes me from the

edges, making me fade little by little

it is all made of butterflies and tiny heartbreaks



number five

we can’t walk together,

i don’t think we’ll learn to stop



number six

we can’t kiss

once it started i couldn’t stop



number seven

we have to kiss without touching

your eyes must trace the space between my

eyes and mouth

they way mine do



number eight

this has to stop but

like you said

how do you become friends

with someone

you don’t want to be friends with